England's Note
by AsWeAreNow
Summary: England writes his suicide note to America. Why? Because screw his other former colonies, that's why. In all seriousness, T for suicide. Please keep yourself safe.
1. Chapter 1

Dear America,

I'm not quite sure how I should phrase this.

I guess I can start by saying: I hope you never learn how expensive colonies are. Really.

Have you already had colonies of your own? I'm not quite sure. It never concerned me. I feel really horrible for writing you specifically, considering all the others that I could've written to.

Either way, I looked around recently, and I realized I'm completely alone. There's nothing left for me. I looked around and I thought to myself: _Wow. What a bloody burden on society. _

And here we are. I really don't know why I'm writing to you; you won't care whether I live or die. I had many other colonies.

But you've lingered in my mind recently, and for far too long. I can't seem to stop thinking of you. You're haunting me. I had to check you were still alive a few times, and you're always alive, and you're always going to be. So how the hell do you manage to haunt me?

I've been exceptionally happy recently, despite the given circumstances. I didn't even need to turn to alcohol! Aren't you proud of me?

Of course you're not. You, you little cheeky bastard— you're so happy all the goddamn time and you can't even legally drink or do drugs in your country, and I'm glad you can't, because god knows what you would be like if you could take after me.

Anyway, this happiness cannot possibly continue. But I'm happy right now, and I woke up this morning and thought, "Hey, wouldn't this be a fantastic day to kill myself?" So here we are.

I've considered doing this for awhile now. I don't want this happiness to leave because I know what it'll bring.

It's your sestercentennial today. You invited me, just as you do every year. I know I promised I would come, but I find I have no time. I'm sorry. I can't see you again before I die, so I'm going to write you this letter instead.

I'm almost relieved I won't see you again. I really don't want to.

I have been through a lot of lows. You won't care, but I must tell you this for you to understand why I couldn't come to your bloody birthday party.

I'm happy. Completely, utterly happy for no reason whatsoever. I don't want to be happy.

This happiness can't possibly be permanent.

Essentially, I want this happiness to last as I get a good head start on killing myself. Things always get better, sure, but things getting better only allow things to get worse. Not only am I unworthy of this happiness I am experiencing, it will leave. Almost guaranteed. Things in the kingdom are going downhill fast, but I won't bore you with much more information. They will get worse, and I won't be able to handle it. It's happened before, but I'll make sure it doesn't happen again.

Anyway, I can't see you again because you are what makes things worse. That's not to say any of this is your fault; but you are a prime example of my fall from paradise. I thought I had it all back then. I loved you so dearly, America.

A long life has proved to me that there truly is nothing out there for me. This happiness is temporary, and life itself will snatch it from me and watch as I fall apart. This happiness won't last, so I wish to get it overwith already.

It took me years- no, decades- of battling with this decision, but in the past week it has become all too easy to decide. And you might not care, but I've no one better to write this to, so you will read the musings of a dead person. Or you might, I guess. I don't really know what you'd do anymore. You're so different now.

I've been waiting centuries for the moment I would get over you, but I feel that flawed reasoning that allowed me to wait has only made this decision that much more welcome.

I know it seems like I hate you. I despise you. I resent you for what you did. But I couldn't ever possibly hate you. You meant too much to me. You mean too much to me.

This isn't your fault, either. I've been putting off this decision for decades; and while originally it was because of you, now I don't even really know what I was waiting for and what changed.

As I mentioned earlier (or maybe I didn't; I don't know and I'm trying to get to the goddamn point, I swear), there are a lot of other countries I could've written to. I wanted to write to you just to make sure I could still say something to you without having to see you. You're my ally, and I fought alongside you. Isn't that enough reason?

I won't bore you with memories. That would be selfish, to take even more of your time.

I love you very much, America, in the most hateful way possible.

Sincerely,

_England _

**_This story was basically just a result of me sitting in my room talking to myself for fifty minutes. What I was saying is much better than this, I swear. But this idea just popped into my head, and I was like, "Oh hey! Why not?" _**


	2. Chapter 2

Dear England,

I'm sorry. I know it's my fault. It has to be, for you to write your last words to me.

I was the one who found you, but I didn't find your letter. The World Meeting— You know the one a few days after my birthday?— was in London, but you didn't show up. I offered to check on you after the meeting.

Your door was unlocked.

I was really worried.

And then I saw it.

Your body, I mean.

I'll never think of it as you. I immediately ran over to it, and it was so cold. It doesn't seem right that any body should be so cold, so desolate. So devoid of life.

You took pills, I thought. I didn't know. I'm not an expert.

And then I turned it over. I turned the body so it was facing me. Your eyes were open, England. Who kills themselves with their eyes open, really?

You stabbed yourself. In the chest. Your clothes were stained with blood, and I didn't know what to do.

I called France, and then I was about to call the police, but I forgot the number. I know it's stupid, but the number isn't the same over there, England. I can't believe I forgot, really. I was panicking, and in my sorry state, I tried to dial 911, and then I remembered that it wasn't the same, and I tried to think of it but I couldn't. I couldn't recall it. I'm so sorry.

As then France arrived. He took my phone from me and called the police, and I just sat there and held it. Everything that you had left behind.

France was crying, and then he picked a piece of paper off of the table, and then he read it, and then he glared at your body as if you were still there.

I wanted to read it, but he wouldn't let me. He folded it up and shoved it into his pocket, and tried to get me away. He tried to get me to go back to you, but it wasn't you. It was never going to be you.

I don't get it, England. I don't quite understand why you would do something like this.

I could've done something. France tried to tell me that I couldn't have done anything. So has Japan and just about everyone else. That idea is so much worse. That I couldn't have done anything. That nothing I could've done would've been good enough. They act like your death was inevitable, England.

They act like I couldn't help you.

England, you're my closest ally. I was supposed to protect you. I mean, okay, maybe it wasn't my job, but what sort of hero am I if I couldn't protect you from monsters?

It is my job to help you.

I couldn't see what monsters you were fighting, England. I've helped you with so many things and the one time it's actually important, the one time your life is actually on the line, and I fail.

I'm sure you would laugh at me if you saw how much I actually cared about you, and if you read this letter and saw my excessive use of commas and my non-descriptiveness.

I wish you would. If you came back, I would protect you forever. I would protect you and I would be so damn good at it that you would never doubt me or yourself or anything else for a second.

If you would just come back.

Yours truly,

America

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

Dear England,

That was a dick move.

You know exactly what I mean, you bastard. Addressing your final note to America. You could've written to anybody in the World, and you choose America.

I tried to keep him away from it. If I had known what the letter said before I read it, I wouldn't have left it out for a second longer. I wouldn't have let anyone else know, and I would've died with it.

I wasn't going to let him read it, but America bugged me so much in the days following your death that it started to annoy others, too. Also, China said that if the letter was addressed to him, he should be allowed to read it.

So I did. I gave the note to him. And it devastated him.

He didn't talk to anyone for two months after that. He didn't show up to World Meetings for two months. The only time anyone saw him during that was at your funeral. He refused to look at you, and he talked about you like you were still alive. I have no idea what his reasoning was, but the whole affair was rather uncomfortable.

When he did return, we didn't recognize him. You wouldn't have either, England. He looked horrible. And he seemed so demotivated during his speech.

Life has been harder recently. For one thing, we don't have anyone to speak on the affairs of the United Kingdom. America immediately offered to speak for you, but we all agreed that it was for the best that he didn't.

Maybe I miss your stupid punk face.

Okay. I miss you a lot.

It's much quieter now, too. There's a lot more silence at the World Meetings. I didn't know that you managed to create so much noise. I suppose part of it was America, too.

I wish I could bicker with you right now. Even if you pulled my hair.

Every once in awhile, I think to call you.

Signed,

France


End file.
